


Country Living

by Kainosite



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th c.
Genre: Fluff, Insufficient Lube, M/M, Mandeltache, New Labour, Rain, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kainosite/pseuds/Kainosite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Alastair's stroll through the wilds of Herefordshire is interrupted by a sudden downpour.  They take refuge in a barn.  You can probably guess where this story is going.  Warnings for consensual spanking and Mandeltache.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Country Living

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Mandebell minifill promptfest](http://lolitics-meme.livejournal.com/9756.html?thread=22939164#t22939164) at the Lolitics meme.

"It's because you're from London," Alastair accused, picking his way gingerly across the sodden field. "You have this falsely romantic view of the countryside, where really it's just mud and thistles and _cow shit_."

He gave the nearest cowpat a furious scowl. The cowpat was not impressed, and just sat in the grass in a smelly brown lump, as cowpats do.

"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport," Peter said, tugging at his hand. "It's a lovely spring day- well, a somewhat overcast spring day- but it's warm and the birds are singing and there's all this beautiful countryside to explore! You don't hear _me_ whinging about the mud, do you?"

"You're wearing wellies! Which I don't have, because when you said 'Come down to Foy for the weekend to help me with my column,' I didn't realize that involved a fucking wilderness trek!"

Far from being suitably repentant, Peter just sniggered. Alastair glumly followed him through the field, over a stile and across another field, which had fewer cowpats but was covered in knee-high grass that soaked his trousers. The countryside was certainly green, but Alastair had found it more beautiful when he was driving through it in his car, before it decided to make him damp. It was true that he could hear the birdsong much better on foot, but while it might _sound_ bright and cheerful Alastair knew enough biology to understand that he was really listening to a bunch of territorial disputes. It was the avian equivalent of a meeting of the Boundary Commission. And this was Herefordshire, so the little bastards were probably _Tory_ birds.

As they were searching along a hedgerow for the next stile so they could escape the field of the dripping, knee-high grass, the heavens decided to compound Alastair's misery with a patter of raindrops.

"Oh dear," said Peter. He looked up at the iron-grey sky hopefully. "Perhaps it's just a drizzle."

It was not just a drizzle. The stile brought them to a gravel road, and they soon found themselves pelting down it beneath a deluge of freezing rain.

"I think there's a barn just up here," Peter panted.

"There had better be," snarled Alastair, splashing through a puddle in his good black shoes.

There was not a barn around the next bend of the road, or the next, but just as Alastair was starting to lose faith in Peter's grasp of local geography they spied through the grey sheets of rain the darker grey of weathered wood. The barn was squatting dolefully in the midst of the next field, and from what Alastair could make out through the rain it was a ramshackle affair, but at this point any shelter was a welcome sight. They scrambled over a rusty metal gate- between this and the mud and the grass stains Alastair had more or less given his trousers up for lost- and dashed across another muddy, cowpat-ridden field into the dubious refuge of the eaves.

"Look for a door," Peter instructed unnecessarily. Alastair rolled his eyes but edged along the wall in the opposite direction. Up close the barn looked to be in better repair than it had seemed at first glance- the unpainted wood and the rusting roof had given it a derelict appearance, but the walls were solid and the roof was sound enough at least to direct a steady stream of water to spatter on the ground an inch from Alastair's toes. The boards were weathered but firmly nailed down, with no loose sections that could be pushed aside to admit the chilled travelers.

Alastair rounded the corner and found the main doors to the barn. He tugged at them, leaning back in to the rain and sending a torrent of icy water down his collar in the process, and discovered the fucking things were locked. Of course they were. The little person-sized door built into the right door was also locked, with a gleaming steel padlock that appeared to be the newest part of the building.

Alastair slumped back against the wall, where at least it was dry if he ignored the raindrops being blown into his face by the wind and the muddy water splashing up onto his trousers from the stream spilling off the roof.

"If we're stuck out here I'm going to punch someone!" he called to Peter. "Probably you!" He might punch him anyway, just on general principle.

"Ha!" Peter shouted back. Alastair was about to tell him he wouldn't find it so funny when Alastair threw him in the mud when he called, "I've found a way in!"

The one open door _would_ be on Peter's side. Alastair trudged back through the mud around the corner and down the long side of the barn. He hadn't noticed before because after running through an open field with the rain pouring directly onto his head the little space beneath the eaves had seemed cozy and dry, but the wind was blowing the rain straight at this wall. At least it was hitting him sideways instead of blowing into his face. He rounded the next corner and found neither door nor Peter, just a blank wall.

"Where'd you go?"

"Over here!" Peter called from around the third corner. Alastair followed his voice and came into a welcome warmth and stillness of air. It occurred to him that he could have walked over to Peter along _this_ side of the barn, where he would have been out of the wind.

Peter had not, in fact, discovered a door. He had discovered the top half of a stall door that had been left unlatched, and vaulted over the bottom half and into the barn. Alastair wasn't sure where this sudden penchant for physical exertion had come from- in London Peter bitched and moaned if Alastair tried to take him to a second floor pub and the he had to climb a flight of stairs- but perhaps he'd been spurred to new heights of athleticism by the very understandable desire to get out of the fucking rain.

Peter unlatched the lower half of the door for him and invited Alastair inside with a bow and a flourish. He looked very rustic standing there in the middle of a deserted stall in his jeans and wellies, except for his gay pink shirt which Alastair was sure none of the locals would be caught dead in. He had a huge grin plastered across his face- no doubt he was smug over successfully finding them shelter, although he had absolutely no right to be because it was his bloody fault they were wet in the first place- and despite himself Alastair had to admit he was cute, in his own impossible way. He decided not to punch Peter after all. Instead he reached over and tousled his sopping hair.

While Peter was swiping irritably at his head trying to comb it flat again, Alastair set out to explore their new temporary home. He wasn't an expert on agriculture, but it didn't seem to him like a working sort of barn- too small, for one thing. Along this wall there were six roomy box stalls, and along the opposite wall there was an empty expanse of concrete with some metal bins, some tools leaning up against the wall, some saddles and harness hanging on hooks, and a rusty tractor in one corner. That was the lot. It wasn't enough to support a business. Maybe the owner was some rich Tory bastard who kept a few horses as a hobby, or maybe it was part of a working farm that raised cattle or turnips or mushrooms for its primary income and this was the horsey bit on the side.

There was a lingering smell of horse, along with hay and that faint ever-present scent of manure that made the countryside so delightful, but there were no actual horses in residence. Perhaps they were all out enjoying the rain and the cowpats. Alastair wandered over to look at the tractor, which was rusty and boring, and the collection of leathery horse stuff, which also basically boring but gave him an idea. He found a loose piece about two feet long with a pair of buckles on each end, and discreetly slipped it into his pocket.

He turned around to see if Peter had noticed, and found his welly-clad legs halfway up the nearest wall. His head and torso had disappeared through a hole in the ceiling.

"There's a hayloft," Peter called down. "It might be a more comfortable place to wait out the storm."

Alastair was inclined to agree. Unless they wanted to sit on the tractor, this floor gave them a choice of bare cement or the straw in the horse stalls and whatever moist, smelly secrets might lie within. Whatever was in the loft, it had to be better than that. The rungs of the wooden ladder bolted to the wall were worryingly thin and splintery, but Peter had climbed it without falling to his death, and Alastair wasn't that much heavier. Well, he was a _bit_ heavier, because he actually ate food. But anything Peter could climb, Alastair could climb. By some miracle it held his weight, and he managed not to slip on the mud Peter had tracked onto the rungs during his own ascent.

The loft was dark, lit only by a slatted window at either end through which the dim light of the grey day barely managed to penetrate. The raindrops drummed loudly on the metal roof. There was a large pile of straw in the far corner, four feet high at its peak and spilling halfway across the barn. As Alastair pulled himself up through the opening, Peter strolled over to investigate it. Alastair tried to follow, and ran face-first into the biggest cobweb he'd ever encountered in his life.

It didn't even make _sense_! Peter had just walked under that rafter, his brain protested irately as he tried to pull away the filaments of sticky spider silk that were enveloping his head. The web should have attacked fucking _Peter_ , not him! And being wet all over ought to have unstuck the sticky stuff and made the silk easier to pull off, but instead it just made it impossible to grab. The web clung to his skin with water tension as well as its native tackiness. Eventually he managed to scrape the worst of it off his face with his fingernails- Christ knew what he was going to do about the bits in his hair- and stalked over to Peter, who was now reclining in the straw like an Egyptian pharaoh on his divan. Even in the weak light Alastair could see the pieces of straw sticking to his wet hair. He looked ridiculous.

"Fancy a roll in the hay?" he asked with a devious grin.

"That's straw," Alastair said.

"A roll in the straw, then," Peter amended, waving a hand dismissively.

Alastair flopped down on the pile, which proved appealingly bouncy but immediately began to stab its way through his clothing. He closed his eyes and breathed in the warm, clean scent of the straw. It was the first thing they'd found on Peter's little jaunt into the countryside that didn't smell vaguely of manure.

"That's not a saying for a reason," he said, fishing a stray straw out of his collar. "Straw is too stickly."

"'Stickly' isn't a word," said Peter.

"Yeah it is. Who's the professional writer, me or you? It means 'full of stickles'."

"'Stickle' isn't a word either."

"What's on the back of a stickleback, then?"

This coup was met with a blank look.

"Ha!" Alastair said triumphantly. "Defeated by my superior knowledge of the world of fish."

"Your hair is full of cobwebs," said Peter in a transparent attempt to change the subject after his ignominious defeat, and poked him in the face with a piece of straw.

Alastair batted it away. "Fuck off. I'm wet, I'm filthy and I'm freezing, and it's entirely your fault."

"I'm cold too. But I know what would warm us up," Peter said teasingly, and leaned over to unbuckle his belt. This was close enough for Alastair to put his secret plan into action. He pulled the thing with the buckles from his pocket with his right hand and with his left seized Peter by the damp collar of his ridiculous pink shirt and hauled him over his lap. Peter yelped in surprise but let himself be pinned, giggling as Alastair pushed his face into the straw.

"I have a better idea for warming us up," Alastair said, doubling the harness strap and making sure he was holding it close enough to the buckles to keep them safely clear of Peter. He brought it down hard across Peter's arse, and it landed with a satisfying snap.

"Next time you want to go for a walk check the fucking weather report," he instructed, punctuating the admonition with a series of blows. Peter squirmed a little, but he remained disappointingly silent.

"I don't think you're really feeling this through those thick jeans," Alastair said glumly.

"That won't do at all," said Peter, all sombre concern. "However will I learn my lesson?"

He reached in between them to unbutton his trousers, accidentally-on-purpose fondling Alastair's crotch in the process, and obligingly pushed his pants and his jeans down to bare his arse. In the dim light from the slatted window Alastair could see the pale flesh was faintly tinged with pink, but it had clearly been far too well protected- he couldn't even make out distinct stripes from the separate blows. He slammed the leather strap down again, confident that this time it would have more effect.

He hadn't anticipated just how effective it would be. Peter howled and bucked violently, almost jerking his collar out of Alastair's left hand.

" _Ow, ow, ow_ ," Peter chanted under his breath. His hands were clenched into pained fists- the wrong way, incidentally, with the thumb inside; someday Alastair was going to have to teach Peter how to fight- and a neat stripe was darkening across his arse. It didn't seem enough to account for the vehemence of his reaction, so Alastair set the strap down and patted his bottom gingerly.

"All right?"

" _Ow_ ," Peter said unhappily.

"Did I catch your balls or something?"

"No, no. It's just everything hurts more on wet skin, especially when I'm chilled. I'd forgotten."

"Do you want me to stop?" Alastair asked.

Peter turned his head sideways to study him. There were bits of straw caught in his moustache.

"That depends how angry you are," he said with a faint grin. "If you want to give me a proper thrashing you can. I meant this to be a nice walk and I don't think I can be blamed for the rain, but I should have thought to warn you to bring boots. I suppose your good shoes are completely ruined now."

Alastair lifted a knee under Peter so he could see his shoe and wiggled his foot, examining the damage critically. "Might be salvageable with a lot of polish."

"If I offer to black them for you will you commute my sentence to a hand spanking?" Peter suggested hopefully.

"Deal," said Alastair, who hadn't been particularly keen to reduce Peter to tears to begin with. He was annoyed, not furious, and if he whipped him hard Peter would need a lot of cuddling before they could get to the sex. The sight of Peter's bare arse wriggling around on his lap and Peter's unsubtle attentions to his cock earlier had made easing his growing erection a higher priority than revenge.

"What were you using, anyway? You're still wearing your belt," Peter said, and Alastair handed him the thing with the buckles.

"Good use of local materials. Five out of five," Peter said with a smirk, and then he had to gasp and stop critiquing Alastair's technique because Alastair was raining a flurry of hard slaps down on his unprotected arse. He writhed across Alastair’s lap, futilely seeking a position that wouldn't expose vulnerable skin to his punishing hand, but Alastair was far too good at this to be thwarted by a bit of squirming. When Peter twisted to one side it just made it easier to smack the tender skin of his inner thigh, which had him straightening out again in a hurry, and whenever he clenched Alastair landed a few blows just at the point where his thighs met his buttocks, which infallibly made him whimper in pain.

It really must have hurt more on wet skin, because within a minute Peter was keening in the back of his throat and snuffling disconsolately into his moustache, a sure prelude to tears. His arse was hot to the touch and bone dry now, and Alastair strongly suspected that better light would reveal a lovely rose hue, dappled with a few darker finger marks. Alastair patted him consolingly and helped him up, seating him on his lap so Peter wouldn't get a bunch of straw jabbing him in the balls.

"Are you sorry for dragging me out on this shitty expedition yet?" he asked, and Peter gave him the shy smile Alastair only ever saw after he'd been smacked or when Neil praised him.

"Terribly sorry, my dear, from the bottom of my heart. But I'll make it up to you," he vowed, leaning in to kiss Alastair and starting to unbutton the absurd pink shirt. In a few moments he'd shucked wellies and trousers as well and Alastair found himself with lapful of entirely naked Peter.

"How are we doing this?" he asked. "You are going to be so, so sorry if you lie down naked on this straw. Even you don't deserve that."

"Just like this suits me," Peter said, straddling Alastair's legs and working his jeans open. His hand reached in to grasp Alastair's erection and Alastair sagged back against the straw, boneless with relief. He closed his eyes as Peter slicked his fingers on precum and began working them up and down his shaft.

"There's a condom in my wallet. What do you want to do for prep?"

"Your fingers are all covered in farmyard and there's nowhere to wash them. They're not going inside me," Peter said.

"They're not going inside your _arse_? The same arse you crap out of?" Alastair asked incredulously.

" _Inside me_ ," Peter repeated firmly.

"You've got _your_ filthy fingers all over my dick," Alastair reminded him.

"Which is getting sheathed in a lovely sterile condom before it goes anywhere near my insides," Peter said. "A lovely sterile _lubricated_ condom, which should be slick enough to get you in me even without you jamming your fingers in everywhere. Stop whining; you love it when I put it on with my mouth."

That was true. Alastair opened his eyes to fish the condom out of his wallet. By now Peter had him rock hard, and he accepted the foil packet with a v-shaped smirk, tearing it open with his teeth. Alastair watched with interest as he delicately picked up the condom with his tongue and bent down to unroll it onto Alastair's cock.

He wasn't sure by what labyrinthine standard of hygiene it was okay for his contaminated dick to go in Peter's mouth but not up his arse, but he wasn't complaining. He sat back and enjoyed the tight seal of Peter's lips and the gentle tickle of his moustache as he eased the condom up Alastair's shaft, and the sight of his bent head, dark hair still littered with pieces of straw. Feeling that he ought to be contributing somehow, he picked them out while Peter worked.

Once he'd finished, Peter sat up again and eyed his handiwork critically.

"I think this might work better if I were facing the other way."

"How the hell am I supposed to get it in you if neither of us is allowed to touch it?" Alastair asked irritably, once Peter had repositioned himself.

Peter grinned over his shoulder. "Persistence?"

"Keep very, very still," Alastair growled.

It took quite a lot of persistence, even after Alastair grabbed Peter's hips to better position him. Peter was lucky he was so fucking horny or he might have given up on the whole thing, but at long last he managed to line himself up and push the tip of his cock through Peter's puckered rim with a few hard thrusts. Peter's unprepared hole clamped down on him like a vice, so tight it was almost painful, and for a moment black and red flowers bloomed across his vision.

"Christ, that's tight. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Peter said, but his voice was rough. "Just stay there for a second, let me-"

He leaned back against Alastair's chest, moving the hand that had been supporting him with a hard grip on Alastair's jean-clad knee back to clutch at his thigh. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Alastair thought he looked a little pale, and the lines of his face were strained. Infinitesimally slowly, he eased himself down onto Alastair's cock. The teasing slide was pure torture, and it took all of Alastair's willpower not to thrust up into the alluring heat of Peter's body. After what seemed like an hour but was probably more like thirty seconds, he broke.

"I can't take much more of this, Peter. Either tell me to pull out or let me thrust, but I've got to fucking move."

"I think we're okay. Just... just go easy, all right?" Peter rested his head against Alastair's shoulder and gave him a wan smile, and Alastair pushed up into him as gently as he could. Peter gasped and his eyes fluttered shut, but he didn't seem to be dying, so Alastair gave another thrust. He grabbed Peter's hips again so he could have more control and gradually worked his way deeper, opening him up with short, gentle strokes until at last Peter was sitting on his lap.

"Good?" he asked, and Peter nodded, giving him a real smile this time. He thrust up again harder, aiming for Peter's prostate, and was rewarded with a second, more enthusiastic gasp. After a few more strokes he had Peter bouncing happily in his lap, pushing himself up as Alastair pulled out and sliding back down again to meet his thrusts. He reached for Peter's erection. It had wilted a little from the pain of penetration, but it soon perked up under his experienced ministrations.

Peter was moaning shamelessly now, and Alastair spared a moment's thought for the owner of the barn. Hopefully they wouldn't decide to come out in the pouring rain to inspect their property, and hopefully if they did they wouldn't hear Peter over the sound of the storm, but Alastair wasn't counting on it. The safest thing would be to ensure Peter came as soon as possible so he'd shut up with his stupid sex noises.

To that end, he sped up his thrusts and gave Peter's dick a hard squeeze, and Peter obediently spurted all over his hand. Alastair just managed to spread his legs in time to keep the overflow from spilling onto his trousers. By now he was pretty close to the edge himself, and he'd always found making someone come to be one of the hottest things imaginable- seeing them lose control in that moment of ecstasy and knowing he'd done that to them. The little cry Peter made when he peaked and the tightness of his muscles clamping down around Alastair's cock were enough to send him over.

He slipped out of Peter and tied off the condom, wiping himself clean on the softest pieces of straw he could find. After all that he was feeling pretty knackered, so he lay down in the straw, and Peter slipped back into his shirt and jeans and curled up beside him. At least they were warm now. Peter laid his damp head on Alastair's damp chest and Alastair wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer.

"Now we just have to wait out the rest of the storm," Peter said sleepily.

"You're carrying the condom home," Alastair said.


End file.
